


Moonlight

by ConsultingPurplePants



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Camping, First Time, M/M, Scars, Sherlock has a nice arse, kind of, so much love, soil samples, waterfall sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 09:35:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7097080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingPurplePants/pseuds/ConsultingPurplePants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Sherlock is standing near the door, wearing, for what John thinks may be the first time in their acquaintance, jeans and a jumper. John drags his eyes away from the way the jeans cling to Sherlock’s just-muscled-enough legs to notice that Sherlock is wearing his own backpack, and is also carrying a collapsed tent.</em> </p>
<p>
  <em>John’s jaw drops open. Is he about to go camping with Sherlock Holmes!?</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there. Excessively long and plotty Smut Sunday has yet again occurred.  
> This was a prompt from a lovely anon over on my **[tumblr](http://consultingpurplepants.tumblr.com)** : _a fic where john and Sherlock go camping in the middle of nowhere for a couple days and have to share a tent and swim naked in a waterfall lake and... well you know._

John nearly falls out of bed when the backpack slams into his midsection, thrown with considerable force from somewhere in the vicinity of his bedroom door.

“Sher— What—.”

“It’s for a case! Get up!” Sherlock shouts. John cracks open his eyes to find an empty doorway, easily explained by the footsteps thundering down the stairs. He shakes his head, both in exasperation at his mad flatmate and to clear it, and bends to the task of inspecting the contents of the backpack.

Hiking boots, towels, his swimming trunks, three cans of bug spray, a sleeping bag, 2 bottles of sunscreen… 

Are they going on holiday?

John shoves everything back into the bag and drags himself out of bed. He dresses sensibly based on what he’s just found in the mysterious backpack, then clomps down the stairs, still not quite awake. 

Sherlock is standing near the door, wearing, for what John thinks may be the first time in their acquaintance, jeans and a jumper. John drags his eyes away from the way the jeans cling to Sherlock’s just-muscled-enough legs to notice that Sherlock is wearing his own backpack, and is also carrying a collapsed tent. 

John’s jaw drops open. Is he about to go camping with Sherlock Holmes!?

Sherlock heaves a frustrated sigh, drops the tent, and comes over to stand in front of John. 

“John. First of all, yes, we are in fact going camping. We will be going to East Sussex, on the banks of a lovely little river with a small waterfall. This waterfall causes the soil composition to change every few hours, but on a continuous cycle every day, and I must be there to gather soil samples every two hours. A man was murdered in the very field we will be camping in, but the soil on the suspect’s boots did not match the soil in the field; however, I’m convinced that this is because the sample that was taken for comparison was not taken at the correct time,” he rattles off, never quite breaking eye contact. John finds himself drowning in shining, glowing pools of blue. 

“John. _John_!”

John blinks, and the moment is gone. “Sorry!”

Sherlock gives him a reproachful look. “Are you ready?”

John nods.

Sherlock shoulders his backpack, and together they tread carefully down the stairs to avoid dropping the tent on anyone’s foot. 

***  
The field, when they finally reach it after two hours of bickering over directions, is lovely. John supposes it was meant to be a camp site, but the whole area is blocked off with police tape; they’ll be the only ones staying here tonight.

In the distance, he can hear the waterfall splashing away, and the sound is already soothing after the hustle and bustle of the city he’s become accustomed to. He stands there for much too long, simply taking in the _peacefulness_ of this place.

A cleared throat from possibly the least peaceful human being he’s ever encountered tears him from his reverie. 

“You know how to pitch a tent, yes?” 

John blinks at him. “A very specific type of tent, yes, but I assume you haven’t brought a British Army approved tent meant for an Afghanistan desert, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smirks, then throws the bag at his feet, where it drops open to reveal—

“Do I even want to ask where you got this?”

Sherlock keeps smirking. “Probably not. Are you going to put that up or not?”

***  
Sherlock, true to his word, sets his phone’s alarm. He then spends the entire day flitting down the river bank, taking samples in a very particular order every time his phone beeps loudly in his pocket. 

John decides to take this time to have a brief holiday; Sherlock evidently doesn’t need him for sample-collecting (although he did make a valiant effort to convince John to carry a bucket of soil around for nearly two hours, until John realized it was completely unnecessary, as Sherlock could do it perfectly well himself, ta very much), so he settles down on a towel near the riverbank and relaxes in the sun. 

It’s not long before Sherlock’s jeans prove to be a very heady distraction. John manages to drift off every now and again, but every time he opens his eyes, he finds that Sherlock is bending over to collect a sample, and the jeans are defining his arse in ways John is completely unable to ignore. 

Eventually, Sherlock happens to glance up at the right moment, and their eyes cross. John looks away so quickly he’s sure he’s just given himself a whiplash injury, but not before he catches the confused look in Sherlock’s eyes. 

The second time Sherlock catches him, he just looks more confused. John worsens his whiplash injury before dragging up his towel and getting his arse back in the tent to dig into the food supply for dinner.

***  
The next time John wakes up, the tent is dark, and still empty.

He checks his phone, narrowing his eyes blearily at the horribly bright screen, and remembers that Sherlock said he had to collect samples every two hours. 

Apparently, that still holds true at half two in the morning.

He shakes his head, smiling fondly to himself at his best friend’s slight insanity, and prepares to go back to sleep. 

That is, until he hears a splashing sound from outside the tent, louder and more irregular than the pleasant gurgle of the waterfall.

Did Sherlock fall in while collecting samples?

John leaps out of the sleeping bag and is outside in seconds, scanning the dark riverbank for any sign of Sherlock. Finding none, he rushes towards it, muttering about idiotic consulting detectives under his breath until he catches a glimpse of something shining in the moonlight.

He stops, absolutely floored, when he realizes that it’s Sherlock’s pale skin, covered in reflections of the moonlight. He’s so busy staring he nearly trips over the pile of clothing by his feet. 

Sherlock looks beautiful like this. His hair is wet and pushed back from his face, hanging long and straight down the back of his head, nearly touching his shoulders. The moonlight illuminates him beautifully, emphasizing the long line of his body and decorating his skin with dancing, watery patterns. His perfectly smooth skin glistens with water, and John watches hungrily as a single drop of water drips from his hair and glides slowly down, all the way past the countless scars from his time away, and back into the water. 

Sherlock’s head slowly turns towards him, but his eyes are closed. For the first time since John has lived with him, he looks completely at peace, a tiny smile on his lips, his features completely slack. 

John has never seen anything more beautiful than Sherlock in this moment. 

The moment is broken the instant Sherlock opens his eyes and give a startled yelp, splashing in the water as he tries to duck down into it. 

“John! What are you— I was collecting—,” he tries.

“You’re allowed to take a break sometimes, you know,” John says. 

“I wasn’t— I don’t need samples for another hour, at least—.” Sherlock sinks deeper and deeper into the water with every word, until only his head is left above the surface. John walks all the way down to the edge of the water, takes a deep breath, and says, “Can I join you?”

Sherlock is silent for several moments as he looks John up and down, observing, reading. He looks just as confused as earlier when he finally voices his answer. 

“Yes.”

John efficiently shucks his own jumper and jeans, but hesitates when he gets down to his pants. Sherlock looks away for a moment, focusing on the waterfall to give him some privacy, and that’s when John spots the pants in Sherlock’s own pile of clothing.

He steels himself, pulls his off, and slides into the water with a discreet splash. 

Sherlock turns at the sound. This time, the moonlight is sparkling in his eyes, and John finds himself drowning again. Sherlock’s confusion seems to be growing by the second.

“John? Why are you— I don’t understand.”

It’s the moonlight that makes him say it, John thinks. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

Sherlock’s blush is so deep that it’s still visible in the dark. “No. I’ve got— Well, you’ve seen them. I’ve got scars. Blemishes. Marks. I’m not— I’ve never been… beautiful, John.”

John steps closer, places a hand on Sherlock’s naked chest, and the words just pour out. “Sherlock? I have honestly never seen anything more beautiful than you, like this, in the moonlight. You’re perfect.”

Sherlock’s eyes are focused completely on his lips, now, and John finds himself unconsciously surging upwards towards him, his final words leaving his lips just before they touch. “Always have been.”

There’s a gasped _John_! and then they’re kissing, lips coming together slowly, tasting each other, pulling the water from each other’s mouths. John leans in closer and closer until the water is no longer separating them, until he feels an echo of his own desire pressed up against his belly. 

His hands come up and wind in Sherlock’s wet hair, the curls straightened from the weight of the water. Sherlock makes a small mewling whimper when he tugs, and it makes John kiss him all the harder. Sherlock’s hands come up to clutch at John’s shoulders, pulling him in as close as possible. 

John licks along the seam of Sherlock’s lips, and Sherlock opens his mouth on a gasp, letting John in, moaning loudly when their tongues touch and John grinds his cock against Sherlock’s at the same time. Sherlock shudders in his arms. 

John can’t quite resist; one of his hands slides down from Sherlock’s hair and clutches a glorious handful of Sherlock’s perfect arse. Sherlock makes a surprised sound, and his hips twitch forwards into John’s, drawing moans from both of them. John brings his other hand down and pulls Sherlock’s hips into a rhythmic grind against his, the water moving around their cocks providing a delicious, _different_ feeling. 

Sherlock drags his mouth away, throwing his head back as the sensations become too much. “ _John_ —.”

John leans forwards to kiss across his chest, pulls a nipple into his mouth and nibbles. Sherlock’s hips give an involuntary thrust as his eyes slam shut and his breath comes out as a groan. “What is it, love?”

Sherlock’s eyes fly open and focus on John’s. He’s still red, shaking with arousal, but his concentration seems to bore into John’s very soul.

“What?”

John tells himself that if he isn’t ready to say it when he’s holding Sherlock, gloriously naked, in his arms, then he never will be. “I love you, Sherlock. How could I not?”

“ _John_ — How—.”

“I love you,” John repeats, and Sherlock’s mouth works, but nothing comes out. John pulls him close, rests his face on Sherlock’s wet but burning-hot chest. 

Moments pass, and then Sherlock’s chin comes to rest on the top of John’s head as he wraps his arms around him, too. 

“I love you, John Watson.” 

John grins into Sherlock’s chest. “Good,” he replies before taking Sherlock’s other nipple into his mouth and _sucking_. 

This close, John feels the tremor that runs through Sherlock’s entire body. He can feel Sherlock’s moan in the vibrations of his chest, can feel Sherlock’s arms tighten convulsively around him, can feel Sherlock’s hips twitch helplessly against his. 

“Yes?” 

“John, _please_ —,” Sherlock starts, then cuts off with a loud, drawn-out moan when John reaches under the water to grasp both of their cocks and stroke. Sherlock’s hips thrust into his fist again and again, and John thinks he might come right then and there simply from the _sounds_ Sherlock is making, the tiny whimpers and moans when John brushes past the right spot.

Suddenly, Sherlock goes completely rigid, his frame vibrating with tension, and then he slumps down against John, shaking as his cock empties itself into the water, murmuring an endless litany of _John_ that has John coming mere seconds later. 

They don’t move for a long time, holding each other up in the water, reveling in what they’ve just learned. 

“I can’t believe— After all this time. I feel like we’ve wasted so much time,” John murmurs into Sherlock’s skin. He can feel Sherlock’s head shake in his neck.

“It’s not a waste,” Sherlock replies. “We learned. We’ve learned so much about each other, these past few years. What we were willing to do for each other. Sacrifice for each other. And besides.”

“What?”

“No time spent with you could ever be considered a waste,” Sherlock whispers, his tone verging on shy, and John’s heart swells as he squeezes Sherlock tighter. 

“I—.” 

An insistent beep breaks into his sentence. Sherlock huffs a laugh. 

“Duty calls?” John asks, grinning. They do have a suspect to charge, after all.

“Duty calls,” Sherlock replies.

They break apart, still smiling, and glance over at their clothes. John groans.

“We didn’t bring any towels. Jesus.”

Sherlock gives him a mischievous look. 

“You realize we’re the only ones here, right?”

John raises an eyebrow.

***  
At home, John laughs about how he can now cross _Collected soil samples in the English countryside in the middle of the night while naked_ off his bucket list.


End file.
